


Sense

by kubotits



Category: Arrow (TV 2012)
Genre: F/M, it's more meta than fic, this is really sappy just gonna warn you
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-08-28
Updated: 2014-08-28
Packaged: 2018-02-14 23:37:29
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 806
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2207328
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/kubotits/pseuds/kubotits
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>It is hers, but she does not know it yet. She <i>knows</i> it, but she does not <i>know</i> she knows it. She buries it in the sand of the beach, in the depths of her heart, the blue of his eyes. And she knows <i>what</i> it is, because what else could it be?</p>
            </blockquote>





	Sense

**Author's Note:**

> I wrote a little thing after the second season finale and then promptly forgot about it. Contains spoilers, I guess.

She hears it when he says her name, the way it stretches out over its syllables, italicized and emphasized to be made anew into not a name nor word but a sentence, a paragraph, a soliloquy. Oliver could very easily be described as monosyllabic, but when it comes out—“ _Felicity_ ”—he injects every unspoken word into it. She hears it, but she does not _know_ she hears it. The pretty, tingly feeling that makes her stomach bounce inside her, raises the hair on her arms, makes her skin gooseflesh, is all explained away by her stupid, ill-advised crush and nothing more.  
  
But Felicity feels it when Oliver touches her. The warmth that ripples beneath her skin, spine sending signals to every part of her body to at once relax and melt and feel at ease, but to also tighten and anticipate; but mostly, welcome. Welcome the feeling of the squeeze of her shoulder, the gentle caress of her cheek, the grip of her hand—but ignore the sentence, the paragraph, the soliloquy he injects in this touch, in her name.

It’s processed through synapses, through idle brain activity, through the biological response of her body. _It_ is the most intangible and tangible, invisible and visible, visceral and ethereal _thing_ , that swoops in and out of her life like a needle pulling thread through two pieces of cloth, stitching them together. They are pulled closer like magnets, like gravity, by “it.” It is as easy to forget as a dream, but pushed to the forefront like a nightmare, manifesting in pleasure and terror and pride and worry.

It is hers, but she does not know it yet. She _knows_ it, but she does not _know_ she knows it. She buries it in the sand of the beach, in the depths of her heart, the blue of his eyes. And she knows _what_ it is, because what else could it be?

But _that_ is “unthinkable,” as Felicity said so herself. Just as unthinkable as aiding and abetting a criminal, helping pull a bullet from a masked vigilante, hacking top-secret government agency files, making a cell phone explode in a killer’s pocket, taking a bullet for an assassin, plunging a syringe into _Slade Wilson’s neck_ —two years ago? She was comfortably seated in her chair in the IT department of Queen Consolidated, living well in a sizable townhouse, drinking reasonably-priced wine; she never _ever_ would have even daydreamed of helping the Star City’s Robin Hood wreak havoc on the corrupt in her city. Every part of her life is the unexpected, the unthinkable, making what she said about them together _being_ unthinkable hold little weight.

And she did believe him when he said “I love you,” every part of her. She still does, but she doesn’t _know_ she does. Or rather, she doesn’t let herself. Each corner of her mind is cluttered with shoved-away thoughts, about her and Oliver, about that special smile, the subtle-as-a-falling-piano upturn of lips that coils and unfurls inside her and fills her with light. She feels heavy with it, but weightless in his arms—but she pushes that away too.

Because if Felicity does know it, if she feels it, sees it, hears it, what will it mean to taste it?

She knows that too though. The “I love you” wasn’t enough for Slade, it seems. The “he took the wrong woman” wasn’t enough. Taste. Craveable, mouthwatering taste. She knows it; she knows it too well and not well enough.

Felicty can’t help be stuck on senses, how they fuel the _what_ that sits there in front of them, the it. The four of five, and that _glimpse_ of five—taste. Except, of course, she knows there are _more_ than five senses. There’s time, temperature, etc., but those she knows to, gets stuck on. Time slows and speeds at any given interval when she looks at him and he looks back. Heat creeps its way up her body, rushing forward to her cheeks and ears, but sending shivers down her spine. This is, of course, all _its_ fault.

_It_ becomes wedged between them, like it often does between words and syllables: I _love_ you, be _love_ d. Where air used to be (and perhaps sparks) now is the thickly congealed essence of that simple, complicated _being_. It is neither a buffer nor a cushion, and not a barrier either; well, most of the time it isn’t. And it’s always been there, she knows it has, this filter between them like she’s got something on her glasses—but only when she looks at _Oliver_.  
  
She knows it, but she doesn’t _know_ she knows it. That is to say, she does not _let_ herself know it...most of the time. She has enough sense to push it aside, until she finds the sense to embrace it.


End file.
